The Groaning Board

greenhouse. She was alone. A potting table stood at the end
of the aisle. She saw clay pots piled one on the other, more herbs in small
plastic pots on trays, and a plastic bag of coke, a box of gold-colored straws,
a large mirror lying flat, and a razor. « No one else had entered the
greenhouse. Downstairs, »; Tony Bennett was finally singing... “I left my...”
She picked up the bag of coke. Put it down. Picked it up again. ' Shelves
jutted out like stadium steps, flowering plants in pots everywhere. Her eye
roved over them. She had no idea what they were. Plants had never been her thing.
    The subtle fragrance registered
before she saw them. And there they were: azaleas in pots, dozens of them, in
pinks, in „ whites. Dozens of them. She was tired. Bill Veeder hadn’t shown.
Well, okay.
    Where had she put her can of beer?
    She left the greenhouse and walked
over to the parapet. The sky was a poor player compared with all the lights of
lower Manhattan. She leaned over the parapet, turned the bag over, and emptied
it into the night air. It snowed coke on Prince Street. She let the bag float away.
    All the lights went out on the roof
just as she finished emptying the bag. The shove caught her by surprise. She
twisted away, fell on her knees, then began swinging. No one was going to throw
her off a roof.
    She screamed, smacked, and clawed,
making contact with bone and soft flesh. Heard “Cunt!”
    “Hey,” someone yelled. “What happened
to the lights?”
    “Leslie, wait a minute. Hold on. Did
he hurt you?”
    “No, no!” She was still punching.
    “Which way did he go?” Another voice.
    “Over the roof. Leslie, I’m here.”
    She stopped struggling. The lights
came on, and Bill Veeder was holding her and people were coming from
everywhere, up the stairs, the greenhouse.
    “Don’t worry,” Hem said. “Bruce
Willis’ brother went after him. He took off over the roof.”
    “Damn, tore my hose,” Wetzon mumbled.
Her knees looked raw through broken threads, stung.
    “Oh, shit!” Hem came out of his
greenhouse. “The candy’s gone. He stole the coke.”
    “I’m sorry I was so late,” Bill
Veeder said. “This would never have happened— Jesus, there’s blood in your
hair.” He looked at her closely. “I don’t see any wound; it’s just on the
surface.”
    “Can we get out of here?” Wetzon
said. She was feeling uncool, as if she were breaking apart.
    They were on the stairs. She saw
Laura Lee and Smith and everybody looking up at her.
    Tony Bennett announced he was
dedicating a song to the little lady on the roof and began singing.
    The thump of feet hitting the roof
came from behind them. Bill stopped on the stairs and turned. “Any luck?”
    “No, he got away.”
    The voice... Wetzon looked up, over
Bill’s shoulder. A Bruce Willis look-alike stood at the top of the stairs. His
eyes bore down at her through his small round dark glasses. He had a porkpie
hat on top of his head. The day’s growth of beard didn’t cover the cleft in his
chin.
    She’d recognize him in any disguise.
    It was Silvestri.

Chapter Thirty-Six

     
     
     
    “About the
coke,” Wetzon said. “Ouch.” She had her skirt hiked up and was cutting off her panty
hose at midthigh.
    “I’d be happy to do that for you.”
Bill sat next to her on his sofa holding a first-aid kit at the ready, watching
her progress. Or maybe it was her legs that interested him.
    “I’ll bet you would.” She finished
cutting the hose into bicycle shorts and handed him back his scissors. “Now
comes the hard part.” She began to roll the hose down. “Ouch.” Threads of torn
nylon were caught in the red scrapes that marked both knees, stubbornly
clinging to her flesh. “Damn.”
    “Let me do that,” he said. He pointed
to his lap. “Put ’em here, pal.”
    Wetzon swung her legs up and settled
her back against the arm of the sofa. She watched him pick out the threads with
a tweezer from the first-aid kit. Then he peeled off her hose. “Done this
often, I take it?” she said.
    “I’m not a bit sorry this is going to
hurt,” he said, dousing a cotton square with peroxide.
    “Ow!” The burning brought tears. “I
hate you,” she said, trying to jerk her legs away, failing.
    “No, you don’t.” He patted her knees
dry with another square, following up with bacitracin, then gauze and adhesive.
    She sighed and reached for the
single-malt he’d poured and she’d diminished by half when they first arrived.
“Where